CltWL^.* ( 






READINGS AND SCENES 



FROM 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 



SIXTEEN READINGS AND TWELVE SCENES 
FOR TWELVE GIRLS 

By 

James Ella Selman 



(Ti^siLr:) 




u 



Price, 25 Cents 



NEW YORK 

EDGAR S. WERNER 
1898 



// ^' 



JAN 24 i<-^ 



\. 



Copyright, 1896, by James Ella Selman 



2r^.^ COPY 



TWO COPIES nEGElVED 



9801 . A37^S-4- 

flonologues, Plays, Drills, Entertainments. 



THE VAGABOND PRINCE. By Ed. L. 
McDowell. This love and tragedy mon- 
ologue for a man is designed as a 
companion piece to "Zingarella, the 
Gypsy Flower Girl" (monologue for a 
woman, 15 cts.). Effective with gypsy 
costum», and tambourine. Price, 20 cts. 

THE DEATH DREAM. By LIVINGSTON 
Russell. Intensely dramatic monologue 
for a man, from the play of "The Bells," 
played by Henry Irving. Five full-page 
illustrations. Full business. Price, 25 cts. 

WHERE THE LILIES BLOOM. By H. L. 
PiNER. Pathetic temperance monologue 
for a man, who is restored to wife by a 
song. Opportunity to sing, with guitar ac- 
companiment. Music given. Price. 15 cts. 

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. Recited by 
Salvini. Monologue for a man. Colum- 
bus reviews his wonderful career, begin- 
ning, "Forlorn, alone and old— I die," and 
ending, "I die content. Columbus will be 
■ nown in every clime." Very effective, 
especially If recited in costume. With 
this come 15 other pieces. Price, 25 cts. 

ENGAGED. By Livingston Russell. Ro- 
mantic, humorous monologue for a 
woman. Companion piece to "Cupid's 
Victim" (monologue for a man, 20 cents). 
A young woman who ha,-? just become 
engaged calls her departing lover back 
several times, and then falls into a gush- 
ing and hysterical reverie. She sorts 
over her love letters, plans how their 
room will be arranged, and runs off 
stage singing the Lohengrin Wedding 
March. Full business given. Price, 20 cts. 

PLAYING THE SOCIETY BELLE. By 
Bertha M. Wilson. Comedy monologue 
for a woman. Much of the fun arises 
from a dog running off with her slipper 
that she takes off at a ball to rest her 
foot. One of the characters assumed is 
that of a "wild, woolly Western girl." 
Full directions. Price, 15 cents. 

THE DOOR IS LOCKED. Trans, and Arr. 
by Ada Webster Ward. Comedy mono- 
logue for a woman. A wife, working 
herself into a fit of jealousy over the 
absence of her husband, locks the door 
and throws away the key She keeps 
him standing outside, scolding him, until 
she learns that he has been fighting a 
duel for her sake. Then she eagerly hunts 
for the key. Full business. Price, 15 cts. 

THE SILVER DOLLAR. By Charles 
Barnard. A romantic, temperance mon- 
ologue for a woman, bringing in five 
characters. Mr. Barnard, the success- 
ful dramatist, has originated a new 
monologue, this being his latest. Suited 
to temperance, religious and other occa- 
sions. Full business. Price, 25 cents. 

WHEN JACK COMES LATE. By Helen 
C. Bergen. A comedy monologue for a 



woman. A young lady indulges in vari- 
ous kinds of emotions while impatiently 
awaiting the coming of her lover. Op- 
Dortunity for banjo work. Price, 15 cts. 
MAYPOLE EXERCISES. By A. ALEX- 
ANDER. For outdoor and indoor use, 
with musical accompaniment and illus- 
trations. Price, 25 cents. 
GUN DRILL. By A. Alexander With 
musical accompaniment and illustra- 
tions. Price, 20 cents. 
COLUMBIA'S FLORAL EMBLEM. By 
Ella Sterling Cummins. A play for 
floral festivals and public school enter- 
tainments for the purpose of awakening 
an interest in choosing a national floral 
emblem for this country. Price, 25 cts. 
AND ALL ABOUT NOTHING. By Gar- 
rett W. Owens. A comedy drama in 
one act for three men and four women. 
Costume and scenery described and full 
business given. Price, 25 cents. 
MAYANNI. By ANNE HENLEY. A fairy 
play for children, either Indoor or out- 
door; ten characters for boys and girls, 
or for girls only. Price, IScents. 
CHRISTMAS BELL DRILL. By LiLY 
HoFFNER Wood. Suitable for Christmas 
time and other occasions. For 12 gir's. 
Fully described; illustrated. Price, 15 cts 
SCARF DRILL. By A. ALEXANDER. Mu 
sical accompaniment and 30 illustra 
tions. A unique and easily produced 
entertainment. Price, 25 cents. 
THE SHADES OF SHAKESPEARE'S 
WOMEN. By A. Laurie West. Brings 
in Ariel, Portia, Juliet, Katharine (the 
Shrew), Lady Macbeth, Miranda, Desde- 
raona, Cornelia, Ophelia, Witches. Cos 
tumes described and business given. 
Price, 25 cents. 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 
Poem by Longfellow. Illustrated tab- 
leaux, with musical accompaniment, by 
Marguerite AV. Morton. A most charm- 
ing romantic, pathetic entertainment. 
Tableaux minutely described and all the 
music given. Price, 25 cents. 
COLUMBIA. By Mrs. Belle T. Speed. A 
drama bringing in a queen, 16 girls rep- 
resenting principles of the Republic, 6 
girls the navy, and six girls the army. 
Patriotic and poetic dialogue, and a 
concerted piece. Directions for cos- 
tumes and evolutions. Price, 25 cents 
COMEDY OF THE QUEENS. By Jennie 
P. BuFORD. A one-act play for school 
commencements, church entertain- 
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of Sweden, Bathshsba, Empress Joseph- 
ine, Cleopatra, Queen of Sheba, and 
Queen Victoria. Price, 25 cents. 



Gdsar Sk. UTerner, Publlsbert 1<08 East IGtli Street, New York* 



CHARACTERS. 

David Coppeefield. 

Master Micawber. 

Mrs. Copperfield, David's mother, 

Peggotty, David's unrse. 

Mrs. Gummidge. 

Little Em'ly. 

Mrs. Micawber. 

Miss Micawber. 

Betsey Trotwood. 

Janet, her maid. 

Dora Spenlow. 

Agnes Wickfield. 



INTRODUCTION. 

This arrangement of Dickens's favorite novel, " David Copper- 
field," is the outgrowth of a deeply-felt need, that the public 
exercises of our schools should combine the elements of true 
literary and popular taste. Good literary taste is essential for 
the culture of the pupils themselves, for the entertainment of the 
cultured friends of the institution, and for the instruction of the 
uneducated. But popular taste should not be disregarded, as it 
often happens that in deep sympathy with the joys and sorrows 
of humanity lies not only much of the success of the entertain- 
ment, but also much of the culture to the pupil. Heart-culture 
must go hand in hand with head-culture in true expression-work. 

It is believed that "David Copperfield" combines perfectly 
these elements of literature and popularity. 

The presentation of this arrangement by my pupils was re- 
ceived with such overwhelming praise and commendation that I 
feel assured that it will be welcomed by many teachers. 

It is arranged to be presented by girls alone, and requires one 
hour and forty-five minutes for presentation. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

If presented ou stage with drop-curtain, the reciter should 
stand before the curtain, in order that the stage-setting may be 
changed for the different scenes without loss of time. The 
scenes are so arranged that there need not be a minute of waiting 
throughout the program. 

A long stage may be made very attractive by famishing two- 
thirds of it as a reader's stage and enclosing the other third, by 
means of curtains, for the acting. Indeed, this is the preferable 
arrangement, as the readings make up the body of the entertain- 
ment, and the scenes serve mainly to brighten and relieve the 
program. 

As a support for the curtain which divides the stage, stretch 
a wire from the front-curtain wire to a screw at the back of the 
stage. The curtains should be closed while the readers are telling 
the story, and promptly drawn open at the tap of a bell by the 
teacher or director, who sits behind a screen at the opposite side 
of the stage, to prompt the reader if such necessity should arise, 
and to tap the bell for the drawing of the curtains at the begin- 
ning and the end of scenes. 

The reader's stage may be decorated by a tasteful arrangement 
of rugs, chairs, tables, lamps, and palms, or other floral decora- 
tions. 

If the right hand side of the stage be curtained off, the readers 
enter from the left, and if the reading be interrupted by a scene, 
the reader retires to a settee at the left and back of the stage, 
and remains seated until bell taps for curtains to be closed, wheu 
the reader advances and resumes the reading. 

Other directions will be given when needed. 



COSTUMES. 

David Copperfield, a little girl (or boy) of about ten years 
of age, very slender and precocions, with demure looks and ac- 
tions. He wears knee trousers, ruffled shirt of white muslin, vest 
of any color preferred, and an old-fashioned, long-tailed coat. 
Enffles of white lace should be worn in the sleeves and at the 
knees. 

Mrs. Copperfield, a very pretty girl who may even be con- 
scious of her beauty. She should be small and girlish. Her hair 
is caught high with a tucking comb, while three or four precise 
curls fall to her shoulders. Her gown is a pretty, simple muslin 
with a long fichu about the neck. 

Peggotty should be large and stiff, and she must not despise 
the aid of pads and a bustle in her make-up. She wears a serv- 
ant's cap, a short frock of red or some other bright color, white 
apron, neckerchief, and heavy shoes. Her manner is confident. 

Mrs. Gummidge should be indeed a "lone lorn creetur." A 
slight girl of melancholy features will take the part well, but 
above all things she must be Mrs. Gummidge. She wears her 
hair powdered, a black cap with a bit of white lace next the face, 
a short black frock, white apron, white neckerchief with black 
border, and heavy shoes. 

Little Em'ly, a girl of ten with light hair. She wears a plain 
and faded calico dress and old shoes. 

Mrs. Micawber, a " thin and faded lady" with powdered hair 
and a careworn expression. She wears a plain calico or home- 
spun dress, and a white apron. Her bearing should be that of 
one almost crushed by misfortune, but who still keeps her family 
pride. She carries the twins in her arms. These are made-up 
babies dressed in long skirts and little caps. 



6 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

I^LiTTLE Miss Micawber and Master Micawber may be im- 
personated by any little children from three to five years of age. 
They should be dressed shabbily. They have no speaking to do, 
but add much to the effect of the Micawber home, and are useful 
for holding the babies when Mrs. Micawber wishes it. 

Betsey Trotwooij is tall and angular, abrupt in manner. Her 
hair is powdered, she wears a lace cap, and in all scenes except 
the first in which she appears, she wears spectacles. Her gown 
is of lavender color, made with plain, full skirt and long basque 
and finished at neck and sleeves with black lace. She may wear 
a fan or a small black bag suspended by a ribbon from the 
waist. 

Janet wears a plain shirt-waist and skirt, with white apron 
and servant's cap. 

Dora Spenlow is a plump pretty girl, with sparkling eyes 
and happy face. She has been greatly spoiled and petted. She 
wears a sheer blue lawn, made becomingly. Of course, Dora would 
not be Dora without Jip. There will be found in every com- 
munity a playful, submissive little dog to take the part of Jip. 

Agnes Wickfield is larger than Dora and a girl of much sta- 
bility of character. Her face is beautiful with the reflection of 
a pure and noble spirit within. She has an ease and grace of 
manner wliich wins the hearts of all, and, as is most fitting to 
her purity of soul, is attired in simple white. 

The costuming will be found an easy matter. The few articles 
that have to be purchased can be found in iuexpensive material. 

Much discretion should be used in the selection of characters 
and even more, I might say, in the choice of readers. The read- 
ings are of varied styles, and require more versatility and knowl- 
edge of all the elements of expression, than do the impersonations. 
The readings, as well as the impersonations, should be perfectly 
memorized, so that there will be no necessity for prompting. 



PROGRAM. 

1. — My Earliest Recollections Name of Reader. 

Scene I. The Crocodile Book. 

Scene II. A Very Pleasant Evening. 

Scene III. The Proposed Visit. 

Scene IV. The Boat House. 

Scene V. My First Grief. 

2. — Miss Mnrdstone's Arrival Name of Reader. 

3. — My Lessons at Home " '* " 

4.— Barkis is Willin' " " 

5. — (a) My Reception at School 

Scene VI. Take Care of Him , He Bites. 

(b) My Mother's Death 

6. — They Were Married " 

7. — In the Service of Mnrdstone and Grimby. . " 

Scene VII. I Never Will Desert Mr. 
Micawber. 

Scene VIII. If You Please, Aunt. 

8. — My School-Days at Canterbury " 

9. — Dora and I Were Engaged " 

Scene IX. What Beautiful Flowers! 
10. — My Aunt's Losses " 

Scene X. How It Happened. 

11.— The Cookery Book " 

12.— I Took Agnes to See Dora " 

Scene XI. Their Meeting. 

13. — Dora and I Are Married " 

14. — Our Housekeeping " 



8 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

15. — My Child- wife is Dead Name of Reader. 

Scene XII. Dora and My Annt. 
16.— Agnes " " " 

It will be found that some of the impersonations are very short, 
and in snch cases the papil taking the part may be assigned a 
reading also, provided the reading does not come so near to the 
impersonation as not to give time for change of costume. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

1. MY EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS. 

Reading. 

Looking back into the blank of my infancy, the first objects I 
can remember, as standing out by themselves, are my mother and 
Peggotty. Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlor 
fire alone. I had been reading to Peggotty aboat crocodiles. I 
was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; bat having leave to sit up 
till my mother came home from spending an evening at a neigh- 
bor's, I would rather have died at my post than gone to bed. I 
propped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked 
perseveringly at Peggotty, as she sat at work. 

[ Bell taps and Reader retires to settee, ivhile the curtains are 
drawn for Scene /.] 

Scene I. — The Crocodile Book. 

The stage is set as "second-best parlor," with chairs, rugs, table, 
cabinet, etc. , tastefully arranged. DAvm and Peggotty are discovered 
near the front. David is sitting with one elbow on the table, where a 
lamp is brightly burning, and holds the crocodile boolc on his knees. 
Peggotty is sitting near by, Icnitting assiduously. David yawns and 
stretches himself and begins the conversation. 

David. Peggotty, were you ever married ? 

Peggotty [^with a start and stopping her work]. Lord, 
Master Davy ! What's put marriage in your head ? 

David. But were yon ever married, Peggotty ? You are a 
very handsome woman, ain't you ? 

Peg. [ shoioing greater surprise}. Me handsome, Davy ! 
Lawk, no, my dear ! But what put marriage in your head? 

David [stretching and yawning]. I don't know. You 
mustn't marry more than one person at a time, may you, Peggotty ? 



10 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Peg. [loith promptest decision]. Certainly not. 

David. But if yoa marry a person and that person dies, why 
then you may marry another person, mayn't you, Peggotty ? 

Peg. Yon may, if you choose, my dear. That's a matter of 
opinion. 

David. But what is your opinion, Peggotty ? 

Peg. [ suddenly rising and speaking ivith much emphasis]. 
My opinion is that I never was married myself. Master Davy, 
and that I don't expect to be. That's all I know about the subject. 

David [ looTcing up i7i great surprise]. You ain't cross, I 
suppose, Peggotty, are you ? 

Peg. [ throioing arms about David and turimig over 
leaves of crocodile book]. Lawk, no, my dear. Did you 
think your old Peggotty could be cross with you ? Now let me 
hear some more about the crorkindills, for I ain't heard half 
enough. 

[ Bell taps., curtains close, while Reader advances and con- 
tinues.] 

Reading. 

The garden bell rang. We went out to the door, and there 
was my mother, looking unusually pretty, and with her a gentle- 
man with beautiful black hair and whiskers, who had walked 
home with us from church last Sunday. As my mother stooped 
down on the threshold to take me in her arms and kiss me, the 
gentleman said I was a more highly-privileged little fellow than 
a monarch. I never saw such a beautiful color on my mother's 
face before. 

" Let us say ' good night,' my fine boy," said the gentleman. 

"Goodnight!" said L 

" Come ! Let us be the best friends in the world ! " said the 
gentleman, laughing. "Shake hands." 

My right hand was in my mother's left, so I gave him the other. 
My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was resolved 



JDAVID COPPERFIELt). 11 

not to give it him, and I did not. I gave him the other, and he 
shook it heartily and said I was a brave fellow, and went away. 

Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger, secured 
the fastenings instantly, and we all went into the parlor. My 
mother, instead of coming to the elbow-chair by the fire, remained 
at the other end of the room, and sat singing to herself. 

[Bell taps, curtains open, while Reader' retires. ] 

Scene II. — A Very Pleasant Evening. 

David is sitting with his head on the table, asleep ; Mrs. Copperfield 
sits apart to the left and back of David and sings softly any familiar 
love-song ; Peggotty stands in the middle of the room to the right and 
back of David, holding a candle in her hand and looking as " stiff as a 
barrel. " 

Peg. Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma'am ! 

Mrs. Copperfield [slowly retiirning from her abstraction']. 
Much obliged to you, Peggotty, I have had a very pleasant eve- 
ning. 

Peg. a stranger or so makes an agreeable change. 

Mrs. C. a very agreeable change, indeed. 

Peg. [still standing motionless in middle of room, and em- 
phasizing her speech ivith her candlestick]. Not such a one as 
this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn't have liked ! That I say, and that 
I swear! 

Mrs. C. [springing up and speaking angrily and tearfully]. 
Good heavens! You'll drive me mad! Was ever any poor girl 
so ill used by her servants as I am ! How can you dare ! You 
know I don't mean how can you dare, Peggotty, but how can you 
have the heart — to make me so uncomfortable, and say such bit- 
ter things to me, when you are well aware that I haven't out of 
this place a single friend to turn to. 

Peg. [grooving more vehement and stamping]. The more's the 
reason for saying that it won't do ! No ! That it won't do ! No ! 
No price could make it do ! No ! 



li DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Mrs. C. [grows hysterical David wakes and looks in 
amazement from Ids mother to Peggotty]. How can you be so 
aggravating as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can you 
go on as if it was all settled and arranged, Peggotty, when I tell 
you over and over again, you crnel thing, that beyond the com- 
monest civilities nothing has passed. You talk of admiration.' 
What am I to do? If people are so silly as to indulge the senti- 
ment, is it my fault? What am I to do, I ask you? Would yon 
wish me to shave my head and black my face, or disfigure myself 
with a burn, or a scald, or something of that sort? I dare say 
you would, Peggotty. I dare say you'd quite enjoy it. [Peg- 
gotty is greatly affected, and sets her candle on table to dig her 
fist into her eyes and weep aloud. Mrs. CoppERFiELD^oes to David 
and embraces him in his elbow-chair.] And, my dear boy, my own 
little Davy ! Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affec- 
tion for my precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that ever was? 

Peg. Nobody never went and hinted no such thing. 

Mrs. C. [rising and S2)eaking luith energy and tears']. You did, 
Peggotty! You know you did! What else was it possible to in- 
fer from what you said, you unkind creature, when you know as 
well as I do, that on his account only last quarter I wouldn't buy 
myself a new parasol, though that old green one is frayed the 
whole way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy. You know it 
is, Peggotty. You can't deny it. [Kneeliyig and affectionately 
placing cheek against David's, who is sobbing pitifully.] Am I 
a naughty mamma to you, Davy? Am I a nasty, cruel, selfish, 
bad mamma? Say I am, my child; say "yes," my dear boy, and 
Peggotty will love you, and Peggotty's love is a great deal better 
than mine, Davy. I don't love you at all, do I? 

David [shj'ieking]. Peggotty, you are a beast! 

[Peggotty m deep aff.iction kneels in front of Mrs. Copper- 
field and David, embracing both at once, and mingling her 
tears with theirs.] 
[Bell taps, and Reader advances while the curtains are drawn.] 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 13 

Reading. 

We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me for 
a long time, and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up 
in bed, I found ray mother sitting on the coverlet, and leaning 
over me. I fell asleep in her arms after that, and slept soundly. 

Gradually I became used to seeing Mr. Mnrdstone, the gentle- 
man with the black whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, 
and had the same uneasy jealousy of him. 

We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother was 
out as before), in company with the stocking and the crocodile 
book, when Peggotty, after looking at me several times and open- 
ing her mouth as if she were going to speak without doing it, 
said, coaxingly. 

\_Bell taps, curtains open and Reader retires. ] 

Scene III. — The Proposed Visit. 
Same as Scene I. 

Peg. Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me 
and spend a fortnight at my brother's at Yarmouth? Wouldn't 
that be a treat? 

David. Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty? 

■Peg. Oh! What an agreeable man he is! Then there's the 
sea, and the boats and ships, and the fishermen, and the beach ! 

David. It would indeed be a treat. But what would my mother 
say? 

Peg. Why, then I'll as good as bet a guinea that she'll let us 
go. I'll ask her if you like as soon as ever she comes home. 
There, now! 

David. But what's she to do while we are away? She can't live 
by herself, you know. [Peggotty loohs uneasy and does not re- 
ply. ] I say, Peggotty, she can't live by herself, you know. 

Peg. Oh, bless you ! Don't you know? She's going to stay 



14 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

for a fortnight with Mrs. Grayper. Mrs. Grayper's going to have 
a lot of company. 

David. Oh ! If that is it, I am quite ready to go. 

\^BeU taps, curtains are dratvn, and Reader comes forward 
and proceeds with story.] 

Eeading. 

" Yon's onr house, Master Davy." 

" That's not it," said I, " that ship-looking thing! " 

"That's it, Master Davy." 

If it had been Aladdin's palace, I suppose I could not have 
been more charmed with the romantic idea of living in it. The 
wonderful charm was that it was a real boat, which had no doubt 
been upon the water hundreds of times and which had never been 
intended to be lived in on dry land. 

" Glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Peggotty. "You'll find us 
rough, sir, but you'll find us ready." 

I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy 
in such a place. 

We were welcomed by a very civil looking woman in a white 
apron. I soon found out that this was Mrs. Gummidge, and 
that she did not make herself so agreeable as she might have been 
expected to do, under the circumstances of her residence with 
Mr. Peggotty. Then there was a beautiful little girl, who 
wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered to, but ran away and hid 
herself. When the door was shut and all was made snug, it 
seemed to me the most delicious retreat that the imagination of 
man could conceive. Little Em'ly had overcome her shyness 
and was sitting by my side. 

[Bell taps, Reader retires, curtains open.] 

Scene IV. — The Boat House. 

All pictures and ornaments are removed, and the room is compara- 
tively cheerless. A bare table is in the centre, with candlestick and 
work-basket upon it. Fish-nets are hung upon the walls, and a pair of 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 15 

oars are in the corner. Two plain, splint-bottom chairs are in the 
room at each side of the table and a little back of it. A little low- 
bench is in front of the table, and somewhat to the left. PEaaoTTY is 
sitting to right of table, knitting; Mrs. Gummidge to left, sewing; 
Little Em'ly and David on bench, playing with toy ship. 

David. You are quite a sailor, I suppose. 

Em'ly. No. I'm afraid of the sea. 

David [/standing ivith bold air]. Afraid! I ain't! 

Em'ly. Ah! but it's cruel. I have seen it very cruel to some 
of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house all to 
pieces. 

David. I hope it wasn't the boat that — \j'esuming seat]. 

Em'ly. That my father was drowned in ? No. Not that one. 
1 never see that boat. 

David. My father is dead, too, and my mother and I have 
always lived by ourselves. 

Em'ly. Your father was a gentleman and your mother is a 
lady ; and my father was a fisherrnan and my mother was a fisher- 
man's daughter, and my Uncle Dan is a fisherman. 

David. He must be very good, I should think. 

Em'ly. Good ? If I was ever to be a lady, I'd give him a sky- 
blue coat with diamond buttons, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, 
and a box of money. 

David. You would like to be a lady ? 

Em'ly \jiodding]. Yes. I should like it very much. We 
would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and my uncle, and 
Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind, then, when there come 
stormy weather. Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would 
for the poor fishermen's, and we'd help 'em with money when 
they come to any hurt. 

[7%e children continue their play.] 

Mrs. Gummidge. I am a lone lorn creetur and every think 
goes contrairy with me. It's so cold it gives me the creeps. 

Peg. It is certainly very cold. Everybody must feel it. 

Mks. G. Ignore petulantly] . I feel it more than other people. 



16 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Yes, yes. I know what I am. I know that I am a lone lorn 
creetur, and not only that everythink goes contrairy with me, 
bnt that I go contrairy with everybody. Yes, yes. I feel more 
than other people do, and I show it more. It's my misfortune. 

Peg. Mrs. Gummidge, you must try to cheer up and not think 
about your troubles. 

Mes. Gr. \tuith much ominous head-sliaking and iueeping'\. I 
ain't what I could wish myself to be. I am far from it. I know 
what I am. My troubles has made me contrairy. I feel my 
troubles and they make me contrairy. I wish I didn't feel 'em, 
but I do. I wish I could be hardened to 'em, but I ain't. I 
make the house uncomfortable. I don't wonder at it. I've 
made you so all day, and Master Davy. 

David [^wJio has been listening in sympathetic amazement, on 
hearing his name, rushes up to Mes. Gummidge]. No, you 
haven't, Mrs. Gummidge! 

Mes. G. It's far from right that I should do it. It ain't a fit 
return. I had better go into the house and die. [Oetti?ig up 
very much overcome. ] I am a lone lorn creetur, and had much 
better not make myself contrairy here. If thinks must go con- 
trairy with me, and I must go contrairy myself, let me go con- 
trairy in my parish. I'd better go into the house and die and be 
a riddance. [ Walking petulantly across floor, as if to leave by 
right hand door. ] 

Peg. [shaking head]. She's been thinking o' the Old Un. 

[Bell taps, curtains are drawn, and Reader goes on with the 
story. ] 

Reading. 

The day came for going home. I bore up against the separation 
from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but my agony of mind 
at leaving Little Em'ly was piercing. 

The door opened and I looked half laughing and half crying 
or my mother. It was not she, but a strange servant. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 17 

" Why, Peggotty," I said, ruefully. " Isn't she come home?" 

" Yes, yes. Master Davy," said Peggotty. " She's come home. 
Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I'll — I'll tell you something. 
Master Davy, what do you think ? You have got a pa ! " 

Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that 
was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said: 

" Come and see him — " 

" I don't want to see him." 

" And your mamma," said Peggotty. 

I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlor, 
where she left me. On one side of the fire sat my mother; on 
the other, Mr. Murdstone. My mother dropped her work and 
arose hurriedly, but timidly, I thought. 

"Now, Clara, my dear," said Mr. Murdstone, " recollect, con- 
trol yourself ; always control yourself! Davy, boy, how do you 
do?" 

I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went 
and kissed my mother; she kissed me, patted me gently on the 
shoulder, and sat down again to her work. I could not look at 
her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that he was look- 
ing at us both. As soon as I could creep away, I crept up- 
stairs. 

\^Bell taps, curtains are drawn, and Reader retires.] 

Scene V. — My First Grief. 

Davi» is discovered lying on floor, weeping aloud. In a few minutes 
Peggotty and Mrs. Copperfield come running in. 

Peg. Here he is! 

Mks. C. David, what's the matter ? 

Davy [sobbing and pulling loose from his mother]. Noth- 
ing. 

Mrs. C. Davy! Davy, my child! [David crying and push- 
ing his mother off.] This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel 
thing! I have no doubt at all about it. How can you reconcile 



18 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against 
me, or against anybody who is dear to me! [Vehemently.] What 
do you mean by it, Peggotty ? 

Peg. [lifting up hands mid eyes]. Lord forgive you, Mrs. 
Copperfield, and for what you have said this minute may you 
never be truly sorry. 

Mrs. C. [wringing hands]. It's enough to distract me! In my 
honeymoon, too, when my most inveterate enemy might relent, 
one would think, and not envy me a little peace of mind and 
happiness. [Trying to be stem.] David, you naughty boy! 
Peggotty, you savage creature! Oh, dear me! What a trouble- 
some world this is, when one has the most right to expect it to 
be as agreeable as possible ! 

[Bell taps, curtains are drawn, and Reader continues.] 
Eeading. 

I felt the touch of a hand which I knew was neither hers nor 
Peggotty's and slipped to my feet. It was Mr. Murdstone's 
hand, and he kept it on my arm as he said: 

" What is this ? Clara, my love, have you forgotten ? Firm- 
ness, my dear ! " 

" I am very sorry, Edward," said my mother. "I meant to 
be very good, but I am so uncomfortable." 

He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. I 
knew as well, when I saw my mother's head lean down upon his 
shoulder and her arm touch his neck, I knew as well that he 
could mold her pliant nature into any form he chose, as I know, 
now, that he did it. 

"Go you below, my love," said Mr. Murdstone. " David and 
I will come down together. " 

Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, courtesied herself 
out of the room. 

" David, what is that on your face ? " 

" Dirt," I said. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 19 

He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had 
asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I 
believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told 
him so. 

" You have a great deal of intelligence for a little fellow," he 
said, with a grave smile that belonged to him. " Wash that face, 
sir, and come down with me." 

" Clara, my dear," he said, when I had done his bidding, and 
he walked me into the parlor with his hand still on my arm, 
"you shall not be made uncomfortable any more, I hope. We 
shall soon improve our youthful humors." 

Note. — Up to this point the reading has all been done by one 
person. However, it may be divided at the discretion of the teacher. 

2. MISS MURDSTONE'S ARRIVAL. 

After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was 
meditating an escape to Peggotty, a coach drove up to the garden 
gate. It was Miss .Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy, 
looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly 
resembled in face and voice. She was brought into the parlor 
with many tokens of welcome, and there formally recognized my 
mother as anew and near relation. As well as I could make out, 
she had come for good and had no intention of ever going again. 
On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ring- 
ing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to 
breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave 
her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach 
to a kiss, and said : 

" Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve 
you of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and 
thoughtless " — my mother seemed not to dislike this character — 
" to have any duties imposed upon you that can be undertaken 
by me. If you'll be so good as to give me your keys, my dear, 
I'll attend to all this sort of thing in future." 



20 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

From that time, Miss Mnrdstone kept the keys, and my 
mother had no more to do with them than I had. One night 
when Miss Mnrdstone had been developing certain household 
plans to her brother, of which he signified his approbation, my 
mother suddenly began to cry and said she thought she might 
have been consulted. 

" Clara!" said Mr. Mnrdstone, sternly. " Clara! I wonder at 
you." 

Going down next morning rather earlier than usual, I paused 
outside the parlor door, on hearing my mother's voice. She was 
very earnestly and humbly entreating Miss Murdstone's pardon, 
which that lady granted, and a perfect reconciliation took place. 
I never knew my mother afterward to give an opinion on any 
matter, without first appealing to Miss Mnrdstone. 

3. MY LESSONS AT HOME. 

There had been some talk on occasions of my going to a 
boarding-school. Mr. and Miss Mnrdstone had originated it, 
and my mother had, of course, agreed with them. Nothing, 
however, was concluded on the subject yet. In the meantime, I 
learnt lessons at home. Shall I ever forget those lessons! They 
were presided over nominally by my mother, but really by Mr. 
Murdstone and his sister, who were always present. Let me 
remember how it used to be and bring one morning back again. 

I come into the second-best parlor after breakfast, with my 
books. My mother is ready for me at her writing-desk, but not 
half so ready as Mr. Murdstone, in his easy chair, or Miss Murd- 
stone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads. I hand the 
first book to my mother. I take a last drowning look at the 
page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing 
pace while I have got it fresh. I trip over a word, Mr. Murd- 
stone looks up. I trip over another word. Miss Murdstone 
looks up. I redden, tumble over half-a-dozen words, and stop. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 31 

I think my mother would show me the book if she dared, but she 
does not dare, and she says softly : 

"Oh, Davy, Davy!" 

" Now, Clara," says Mr. Murdstone, "be firm with the boy. 
Don't say ' Oh, Davy, Davy !' That's childish. He knows his 
lesson, or he does not know it." 

"He does not know it." Miss Murdstone interposes, awfully. 

" I am really afraid he does not," says my mother. 

The despairing way in which my mother and I look at each 
other, as I blunder on, is truly melancholy. Bat the greatest effect 
in these miserable lessons is when my mother tries to give me the 
cue by the motion of her lips. At that instant. Miss Murdstone, 
who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says in a 
deep, warning voice: 

"Clara!" 

My mother starts, colors, and smiles faintly, Mr. Murdstone 
comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes 
my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by my shoulders. 

One morning when I went into the parlor with my books, I 
found my mother looking anxious. Miss Murdstone looking firm, 
and Mr, Murdstone binding something round the bottom of a 
cane. 

" Now, David," he said, "you must be far more careful to-day 
than usual." 

He gave the cane a poise, and a switch; and laid it down 
beside him, with an expressive look, and took up his 
book. This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, I 
felt the words of my lesson slipping off, not one by one, or line 
by line, but by the entire page. We began badly and went on 
worse. My mother burst out crying. 

" Clara!" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice. 

" Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect 
firmness, the worry and torment that David has occasioned her 
to-day. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened 



22 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. 
David, you and I will go upstairs, boy." 

He walked me up to my room, slowly and gravely. 

"Mr. Murdstone! Sir!" I cried to him. "Don't. Pray 
don't beat me! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn while 
you and Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed! " 

" Can't you indeed, David ? " he said. 

He cut me heavily an instant afterward, and in the same 
instant I caught the hand with which he held me, in my 
mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my 
teeth on edge to think of it. He beat me then, as if he 
would have beaten me to death. Above all the noise we 
made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out. 
I heard my mother crying out and Peggotty. Then he 
was gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lying 
fevered, and hot, and torn, and raging in my puny way, upon 
the floor. How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an 
unnatural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house. 
How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to 
cool, how wicked I began to feel! 

For the length of five days I was a prisoner. I saw no 
one but Miss Murdstone, when she brought me something 
to eat. 

On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing 
my own name spoken in a whisper. I groped my way to the door, 
and putting my own lips to the keyhole, whispered : 

" Is that you, Peggotty, dear ? " 

" Yes, my own precious Davy," she replied. "Be as soft as 
a mouse, or the cat'll hear us. " 

" What is to be done with me, Peggotty, dear ? Do yon 
know ? " 

" School. Near London," was Peggotty's answer, 

"When, Peggotty?" 

" To-morrow. You must never forget me. And I'll taice 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 23 

care of yonr mamma, Davy. And I won't leave her. And I'll 
write to you, my dear." 

"Thank yon, dear Peggotty," said I. And we both of ns 
kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection. From that night 
there grew up in my breast a feeling for Peggotty which I can 
not very well define. She did not replace my mother; no one 
could do that; but she came into a vacancy in my heart, which 
closed upon her. 

4. BARKIS IS WILLIN'. 

Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, 
and to say on the way that she hoped I would repent before I 
came to a bad end ; and then I got into the cart, and the lazy 
horse walked off with it. We might have gone about half a mile, 
and my pocket-handkerchief was quite wet through, when the 
carrier stopped short. Looking out to ascertain what for, I saw, 
to my amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge and climb into 
the cart. She took me in both her arms, and brought out some 
paper bags of cakes, which she crammed into my pockets, and a 
purse which she put into my hand. After another squeeze with 
both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away, and my 
belief is, without a solitary button on her gown. 

The carrier's name was Mr. Barkis. I offered him a cake as a 
mark of attention. 

" Did she make 'em, now ?" said Mr. Barkis. 

'* Peggotty, do you mean, sir ?" 

" Ah ! " said Mr. Barkis. " Her." 

" Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our 
cooking. " 

' ' Do she, though ? " said Mr. Barkis. 

He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't whistle. 
He sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw something new 
there. By and by he said : 

" No sweethearts, I b'lieve ? " 



24 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

" Sweetmeats, did you say, Mr. Barkis ?" For I thought he 
wanted something else to eat. 

'* Hearts," said Mr. Barkis. " Sweethearts 1 " 

*' Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart." 

" Didn't she, though ?" said Mr. Barkis. 

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn't 
whistle, but sat looking at the horse's ears. 

" Well. I'll tell you what," said Mr. Barkis. " P'r'aps you 
might be writin* to her ? " 

" I shall certainly write to her," I rejoined. 

" Well, if you was writin' to her, p'r'aps you'd recollect to say 
that Barkis was willin', would you ? " 

" That Barkis is willin' ? Is that all the message ?" 

" Ye-es," he said, considering. " Ye-es. Barkis is willin'." 

" But you will be at Blunderstone again to-morrow, Mr. 
Barkis," I said, " and could give your own message so much 
better." 

As he repudiated this snggestion, however, I readily under- 
took its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach at 
Yarmouth, I procured a sheet of paper and wrote a note to Peg- 
gotty, which ran thus : ' ' My dear Peggotty : I have come 
here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mamma. Yours 
affectionately. P. S. He says he particularly wants you to 
know, Barkis is willing. ^^ 

5. (a) MY KECEPTION AT SCHOOL. 

I was sent to school in holiday time as a punishment for my 
misdoing. I gazed upon the schoolroom as the most forlorn 
and desolate place I had ever seen. Suddenly I came upon a 
pasteboard placard, beautifully written, which was lying on the 
desk and bore these words : '-^ Take care of Mm. Hehites." 

I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least a 
great dog underneath. But, though I looked with anxious eyes, 
I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 25 

about when Mr. Mell, one of the masters, came in and asked me 
what I did np there. 

" I beg your pardon, sir," says I, "if you please, I'm looking 
for the dog." 

' ' Dog ? " says he. " What dog ? " 

" Isn't it a dog, sir?" 

"Isn't what a dog?" 

" That's to be taken care of, sir; that bites." 

"No, Copperfield," says he, gravely, "that's not a dog. 
That's a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this 
placard on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning 
with you, but I must do it." 

With that he took me down and tied the placard, which was 
neatly constructed for the purpose, on my shoulders like a knap- 
sack ; and wherever I went, afterward, I had the consolation of 
carrying it. What I suffered from that placard, nobody can im- 
agine. Whether it was possible for people to see or not, I always 
fancied that somebody was reading it. It was no relief to turn 
round and find nobody; for wherever my back was, there I im- 
agined somebody always to be. 

[Bell taps, curtains are drawn. Reader retires. ] 

Scene VI.— '' Take Care of Him, He Bites.'' 

David darts across stage with a white pasteboard placard on his back, 
bearing the inscription "Take Care of Him, He Bites," printed in bold, 
black letters. He makes sudden turns as if afraid someone behind him 
were reading that shameful placard. 

[Bell taps, curtains close and Reader continues. ] 

Keading. 

5. (b) MY MOTHER'S DEATH. 

I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary 
of my birthday came round in March. It was after breakfast, 
and we had been summoned in from the playground, when Mr. 
Sharp entered and said : 



26 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

" David Copperfield is to go into the parlor." 

I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the 
order. 

" Don't hurry, David," said Mr. Sharp. "There's time enough, 
my boy, don't hurry." 

I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he 
spoke, if I had given it a thought, but I gave it none until after- 
ward. I hurried away to the parlor and there I found Mrs, 
Creakle with an open letter in her hand. But no hamper. 

"David Copperfield," said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa 
and sitting down beside me, " I want to speak to you very par- 
ticularly. I have something to tell you, my child. You are too 
young to knovf •hb'# the world ''x?hahg'e^' every day, and how the 
people in it pass away. But we all have to learn it, David." 

I looked at her earnestly, 

" When you came away from home at the end of the vacation," 
said Mrs. Creakle, " where they all well? " And after another 
pause, " Was your mamma well ? " 

I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at 
her earnestly, making no attempt to answer. 

" She is very dangerously ill," she added. 

I knew all now. 

"She is dead." 

There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out 
into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world. She 
was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me 
alone sometimes; and I cried and wore myself to sleep and awoke 
and cried again. When I could cry no more, I began to think ; 
and then the oppression on my breast was heaviest and my grief 
a dull pain that there was no ease for. If ever child were stricken 
with sincere grief, I was. I was to go home next night. 

When we reached home, I was in Peggotty's arms before I got 
to the door, and she took me into the house. Her grief burst 
out when she first saw me ; but she controlled it soon, and spoke 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 27 

in whispers and walked softly, as if the dead conld be 
disturbed. 

Mr. Mnrdstone took no heed of me when I went into the par- 
lor where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently and 
pondering in his elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone gave me her cold 
finger-nails, and asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been 
measured for my mourning. 

I said: "Yes." 

" And your shirts," said Miss Mnrdstone; " have you brought 
'em home? " 

" Yes, ma'am. I have brought home all my clothes." 

This was all the consolation that her firmness administered 
to me. 

We stand around the grave. The day seems different to me 
from every other day, and the light not of the same color — of a 
sadder color. Now there is a solemn hush, and while we stand 
bareheaded I hear the voice of the clergyman, sounding remote 
in the open air, and yet distinct and plain, saying: " 1 am the 
Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord! " It is over and the 
earth is filled in, and we turn to come away. Before us stands 
our house, so pretty and unchanged, so linked in my mind with 
what is gone, that all my sorrow has been nothing to the sorrow 
it calls forth. 

From the moment of my knowing of the death of my mother, 
the idea of her as she had been of late had vanished from me. In 
her death she winged her way back to her calm, untroubled youth, 
and canceled all the rest. The mother who lay in the grave was 
the mother of my infancy. 

6. THEY WERE MARRIED. 

The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when the 
day of solemnity was over was to give Peggotty a month's 
warning. As to me or my future, not a word was said or a step 
taken. » 



28 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

"Peggotty," I said, one evening, " Mr. Mnrdstone likes me 
less than he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty, but 
he wonld rather not even see me now, if he can help it. " 

"I'm a-going, Davy, you see, to my brother's for another 
fortnight's visit. Now, I have been thinking that perhaps, as 
they don't want you here at present, you might be let to go 
along with me. " 

If anything could have given me a sense of pleasure at that 
time, it would have been this project of all others. To be sure, 
there was doubt of Miss Murdstone's giving her consent, but even 
that was set at rest soon. 

" The boy will be idle there," said Miss Murdstone, " but it is 
of more importance than anything else that my brother should 
not be disturbed or made uncomfortable. I suppose I had better 
say yes." 

When the term of my visit was nearly expired, it was given 
out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to make a day's 
holiday together, and that Little Em'ly and I were to accompany 
them, Peggotty was dressed as usual in her neat and quiet 
mourning, but Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat. Away 
we went, however, on our holiday excursion; and the first thing 
we did was to stop at a church, where Mr. Barkis tied the horse 
to some rails and went in with Peggotty. Mr. Barkis and Peg- 
gotty were a good while in the church, but came out at last, and 
then we drove away into the country. As we were going along, 
Mr. Barkis turned to me and said, with a wink: 

" What name was it as I wrote up in the cart ? " 

" Clara Peggotty," I answered. 

" What name would it be as I should write up now ? " 

" Clara Peggotty, again ?" I suggested. 

" Clara Peggotty Barkis !" he returned, and burst into a roar 
of laughter that shook the chaise . 

In a word, they were married, and had gone into the church 
for no other purpose. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 29 

7. IN THE SERVICE OF MURDSTONE AND GRIMBY. 

And now I fell into a state of ueg;lect that I can not look back 
npon withoat compassion. It seems wonderful to me that no- 
body should have made any sign in ray behalf. But none was 
made; and I became, at ten years old, a little laboring hind in 
the service of Murdstone and Grimby, in London. Murdstone 
and Grimby's warehouse was at the water side. It was a crazy 
old house with a wharf of its own, abutting on the water when 
the tide was in and on the mud when the tide was out, and liter- 
ally overrun with rats. My working-place was established in a 
corner of the warehouse. No words can express the secret agony 
of my soul as I sunk into companionship with the people of this 
warehouse. Mr. Murdstone had arranged that I should lodge 
with one Mr. Micawber. At the appointed time of the evening 
Mr. Micawber appeared. 

Arrived at his house in Windsor Terrace he presented me to 
Mrs. Micawber, a thin and faded lady, not at all young, who was 
sitting in the parlor with a baby in her arms. This baby was one 
of the twins. There were two other children. In this house and 
with this family I passed my leisure time. A curious equality 
of friendship sprung up between me and these people, notwith- 
standing the ludicrous disparity in our years. 

\^Bell taps^ Reader 7'etires and curtains are drawn.] 

Scene VII. — '''• I Never Will Desert Mr. Micawber." 

Mrs. Micawber with the twins, one leaning against her shoulder, the 
other lying in her lap; little Miss Micawber and Master Micawber en- 
gaged with their broken toys; David seated in a straight chair listen- 
ing to Mrs. Micawber' s doleful tale. 

Mrs. Micawber. I never thought before I was married, when 
I lived with papa and mamma, that I should ever find it neces- 
sary to take a lodger. But Mr. Micawber being in difficulties, all 
considerations of private feeling must give way. 

David. Yes, ma'am, 



30 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Mrs. M. Mr. Micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming 
jnst at present, and whether it is possible to bring him through 
them, I don't know. When I lived at home with papa and 
mamma, I really should have hardly understood what the word 
"lodger" meant, in the sense in which I now employ it. 

David. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. Master Copperfield, I make no stranger of you, and 
therefore do not hesitate to say that Mr. Micawber's difficulties 
are coming to a crisis. 

David. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese, 
there is really not a scrap of anything in the larder. I was ac- 
customed to speak of the larder when I lived with papa and 
mamma, and I use the word almost unconsciously. 

David. Are they dead, ma'am ? 

Mrs. M. [changmg the babies about as if to keep them quiet]. 
My mamma departed this life before Mr. Micawber's difficulties 
commenced, or at least before they became pressing. [ fFeeping.J 
My papa lived to bail Mr. Micawber several times, and then ex- 
pired, regretted by a numerous circle. 

David. May I ask, ma'am, what you and Mr. Micawber in- 
tend to do ? 

Mrs. M. My family are of opinion that Mr. Micawber 
should quit Loudon and exert his talents in the country. Mr. 
Micawber is a man of great talent. Master Copperfield. 

David. Oh, I am sure of that. 

Mrs. M. Of great talent. My family are of opinion that, with 
a little interest, something might be done for a man of his 
ability in the Custom House. The influence of my family being 
local, it is their wish that Mr. Micawber should go down to Plym- 
outh, They think i<- indispensable that he should be upon the spot. 

David. That he may be ready ? 

Mrs. M. Exactly. That he, may be ready in case anything 
turns up. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 31 

David. And do you go too, ma'am ? 

Mrs. M. [here she motions to little Miss Micawber to taJce one 
of the babies; the child walks up and doion luith the baby^ and 
plays with it to keep it quiet]. I never will desert Mr. Micaw- 
ber. Mr. Micawber may have concealed his difficulties from me 
in the first instance, but his sanguine temper may have led him 
to expect that he would have overcome them. The pearl neck- 
lace and bracelets, which I inherited from mamma, have been 
disposed of for less than their value; and the set of coral, which 
was the wedding-gift of my papa, has been actually thrown away 
for nothing. But I never will desert A[r. Micawber [weeping], 
no, I never will do it. It's of no use asking me. [David is 
greatly distressed.] Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny 
that he is improvident. I do not deny that he has kept me in 
the dark as to his resources and liabilities, both, but I never will 
desert Mr. Micawher [sobbing betwee?itoords],l — ne- — ver — will — 
desert — Mr. Micawber. 

[ Bell taps, curtains close, Reader continues. ] 

Reading. 

I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and had 
grown so intimate with them in their distresses, and was so utterly 
friendless without them, that the prospect of being thrown upon 
some new shift for a lodging and going once more among 
unknown people was like being that moment turned adrift. 
That there was no hope of escape from it, unless the escape was 
my own act, I knew quite well. I rarely heard from Miss Murd- 
stone, and never from Mr. Murdstone; not the least hint of my 
ever being anything else than the common drudge into which I 
was fast settling down. 

The very next day showed me that Mrs. Micawber had not 
spoken to me without warrant. My resolution was now taken. 

" My dear young friend," said Mr. Micawber, "I am older 
than you ; a man of some experience in life, and — and of some 



33 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

experience, in short, in difficulties. At present, and nntil some- 
thing turns up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I 
have nothing to bestow but advice. My advice is, never do to- 
morrow what you can to-day. Procrastination is the thief of 
time. Collar him. My other piece of advice, Copperfield, you 
know. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditures, 
nineteen pounds, ought and six ; result, happiness. Annual in- 
come, twenty pounds; annual expenditures, twenty pounds, 
ought and six; result, misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf 
is withered, the god of day goes down upon the dreary scene, 
and — and, in short, you are forever floored, as I am. " 

I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts 
in my mind. 

"Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, " God bless you. 
I never can forget you." 

"Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, "farewell. Every happi- 
ness and prosperity. If, in the process of revolving years, I 
could persuade myself that my blighted destiny had been a warn- 
ing to you, I should feel that I had not occupied another man's 
place in existence altogether in vain. In case of anything turn- 
ing up (of which I am rather confident), I shall be extremely 
happy if it should be in my power to improve your prospects. " 

I went to begin my weary day at Murdstone and Grimby's, 
but with no intention of passing many more weary days there. 
No. 1 had resolved to run away. To go by some means or 
other, down into the country, to the only relation I had in the 
world, and tell my story to my aunt. Miss Betsey Trotwood. 
{^Bell taps, curtains open, Reader retires.'] 

Scene VIII.— '' If You Please, Aimt.'' 

The furnishings of the Copperfield home may be used, with the addi- 
tion of a lounge placed near the front and a cabinet for medicine at the 
back. Window at back of stage is open. Miss Betsey is seated with 
a book or sewing in her hands. Hearing a slight noise at the door, she 
looks round and sees David entering, very ragged and travel-stained. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 83 

Miss Betsey [ivith viole^it gestures]. Go away! Go along! 
No boys here ! 

David [^coming nearer, with hurnility and despair in his 
face]. If you please, ma'am. [Miss Betsey is startled by the 
to?ie.] If you please, aunt! [^Extending hoth hands.] 

Miss B. Eh ! [In amazement. ] 

David [coming very near]. If you please, aunt, I am your 
nephew! 

Miss B. Oh, Lord! [Throwing up hands and sitting flat 
down upon floor.] 

David. I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone. I have 
been very unhappy since my mother died. I have been slighted 
and taught nothing, and put to work not fit for me. [Crying.] 
It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first setting out, 
and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed since 
I began the journey. [Miss Betsey sits and stares while he tells 
his story. Touched iy his tears, she gets up in haste, pulls him 
to lounge, and makes him lie doiun. She stands a little way off 
looking at him.] 

Miss B. Mercy on us! Mercy on us! [After a little she 
rings hell and Janet appears. ] Janet, bring me some camphor 
and some brandy, quick ! [Janet obeys, getting bottles from 
cabinet; then she brings luater, spoon, glass, etc. He is made to 
drink the brandy, and is vigorously rubbed with camphor.] 
Land o' mercy! Janet, get a blanket! [Janet returns with 
blanket and both tuck it snugly around him. Miss Betsey falls 
despairifigly into a chair.] Janet, heat the bath! [Janet ^oes 
out and returns ivith basin of luater and towels and proceeds to 
bathe his face and hands. Meamvh He, Miss Betsey exclaims:] 
Mercy on us! Mercy on us! [Suddenly she looks toward open 
window, her hands raised in horror.] Janet! Donkeys! [Janet 
rushes for broom and violently thrusts it out of window. She 
then goes back to David, but Miss Betsey lingers at window, 
looks out in every direction, and shakes fist at an imaginary 



84 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

donkey. Then she leaves window, stands behind David's couch, 
and looks at him, saying ;] Poor fellow ! Pretty fellow ! [She 
goes back to chair.] Mercy upon us! [David is asleep ivhile 
Janet bathes his forehead. Miss Betsey screams.] Janet! 
Donkeys! [Janet brandishes broom and Miss Betsey goes to 
window to assure herself that the enemy is out of sight. Janet 
removes bath, and Miss Betsey walks up and doivn, soliloqui- 
zing.] Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate baby that she 
must go and get married again, I can't conceive! And then goes 
and marries a murderer — or a man with a name like it — and 
stands in the child's light! And the natural consequence is, as 
anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he prowls and 
wanders. [Looking doion upon him.] He's as like Cain before 
he was grown up as he can be. And then there's that woman 
with the Pagan name, that Peggotty, she goes and gets married 
next. Because she has not seen enough of the evil attending such 
things, she goes and gets married next, as the child relates. 
[David awakes on hearing Peggotty's name.] I only hope that 
her husband is one of those poker husbands who abound in the 
newspapers, and that he will beat her well with one. 

David [sitti?ig up]. No, aunt, Peggotty was the best, the 
truest, the most faithful, the most devoted, the most self-sacri- 
ficing friend and servant in the world. She always loved me 
dearly and she always loved my mother dearly. [Crying.] She 
held my dying mother's head upon her arm. 

Miss B. Well, well ! The child is right to stand by those who 
have stood by him. Janet! Donkeys! [Janet wields broom 
again.] 

[Bell taps, curtains close, and Reader comes on.] 

Heading. 

8. MY SCHOOL-DAYS AT CANTEEBUKY. 

I was now Trotwood Copperfield. I began my new life with 
a new name and with everything new about me. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 85 

*' Trot," said my aunt, one evening, " we mnst not forget yonr 
education," 

This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite delighted 
by her referring to it. 

" Should you like to go to school at Canterbury ? " said my 
aunt. 

I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near 
her. 

"Good," said my aunt. "Should you like to go to-mor- 
row ? " 

Being already no -stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt's 
evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the pro- 
posal, and said, " Yes." 

" Good! " said my aunt again. "Janet, hire the gray pony 
and chaise to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and pack up Mas- 
ter Trotwood's clothes to-night." 

She took me over to Canterbury and left me in charge of Mr. 
Wickfield, who had a big, old-fashioned house, kept by his little 
daughter Agnes, about my own age. My aunt was as happy as I 
was in the arrangement made for me. Next morning I entered 
on school-life again. 

My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence from 
childhood up to youth ! 

I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen, in a few 
months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me a 
mighty creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is un- 
attainable. Agnes says "No," but I say " Yes," and tell herbhe 
little thinks what stores of knowledge have been mastered by the 
wonderful being at whose place she thinks I, even I, may arrive 
in time. Agnes is a sister to me and condoles with me and reads 
to me, and makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my 
confidence completely, always ; I tell her all my grievances. 

Time has stolen on unobserved. I am the head boy, now ; and 
look down on the line of boys below me with a condescending in- 



36 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

terest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself 
when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part 
of me. I remember him as something left behind npon the road of 
life, as something I have passed rather than have actually been, 
and almost think of him as of someone else. 

And the little girl I saw on the first day at Mr. Wickfield's, 
where is she ? Gone also. Agnes, my sweet sister, as I call her 
in my thoughts, my counselor and friend, the better angel of the 
lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influ- 
ence, is quite a woman. 

What other changes have come over me besides the changes in 
my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all 
this while ? I wear a gold watch and chain, and a ring upon my 
little finger, and a long-tailed coat. Am I in love ? I am. 
I worship the eldest Miss Larkins. 

" Trotwood," said Agnes, one day after dinner, " who do you 
think is going to be married to-morrow ? Someone yon ad- 
mire." 

" Not you, I suppose, Agnes?" 

" Not me. The eldest Miss Larkins! " 

I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my 
ring, I wear my worst clothes, and I frequently lament over the 
late Miss Larkins's faded flower. 

I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry when my 
school-days drew to an end. I had been very happy there, and I 
was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these 
reasons I was sorry to go ; but for other reasons I was glad. 
Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the im- 
portance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the 
wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, 
and the wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, 
lured me away. 

My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the call- 
ing to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had en- 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 87 

deavored to find a satisfactory answer to her often repeated ques- 
tion what I should like to be. 

" Well, Trot," she began one day, " what do you think of the 
proctor plan? Or have you not begun to think about it yet?" 

" I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and Hike 
it very much indeed. I like it exceedingly." 

" Come! " said my aunt. " That's cheering. We'll go to the 
Commons after breakfast to-morrow." 

At about midday, we set off for the offices of Messrs. Spenlow 
and Jorkins in Doctors' Commons. It was settled that I should 
begin my month's probation as soon as I pleased. 

9. DORA AND I WERE ENGAGED. 

On the day when I was articled, no festivity took place beyond 
my having sandwiches and sherry in the office for the clerks and 
going alone to the theatre at night. 

Mr. Spenlow, in a week or two, said that if I would do him the 
favor to come down next Saturday and stay till Monday, he would 
be exceedingly happy. Of course, I said I ivould do him the favor ; 
and he was to drive me down in his phaeton and to bring me back. 
The phaeton was a very handsome affair ; the horses arched their 
necks and lifted their legs as if they knew they belonged to Doc- 
tors' Commons. It was very pleasant going down, and Mr. Spen- 
low gave some hints in reference to my profession. There was a 
lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow's house, and it was so beautifully 
kept that I was quite enchanted. We went into the house, 
which was cheerfully lighted up, and into a hall where there 
were all sorts of hats, caps, great-coats, plaids, gloves, whips 
and walking-sticks. 

" Where is Miss Dora?" said Mr. Spenlow to the servant. 

' ' Dora ! " I thought. ' ' What a beautiful name ! " 

We turned into a room near at hand and I heard a voice say, 
"Mr. Copperfield, my daughter Dora." It was, no doubt, Mr. 
Spenlow's voice, but I didn't know it and I didn't care whose it 



38 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

was. All was over in a moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. 
I was a captive and a slave. I loved Dora Spenlow to distrac- 
tion. She was more than human to me. She was a fairy, a 
sylph, I don't know what she was — anything that no one ever 
saw and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed 
up in an abyss of love in an instant. I don't remember who was 
there except Dora. I have not the least idea what we had for 
dinner besides Dora. My impression is that I dined off Dora 
entirely, and sent away half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat 
next to her. I talked to her. She had the most delightful little 
voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascina- 
ting little ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. 

Within the first week of my passion, I bought four sumptuous 
waistcoats — not for myself ; I had no pride in them ; for Dora — 
and took to wearing straw-colored kid gloves in the streets, and 
laid the foundation of all the corns I ever had. If the boots I 
wore at that period could only be produced and compared with 
the natural size of my feet, they would show what the state of 
my heart was, in a most affecting manner. 

When Dora's birthday arrived, Mr. Spenlow told me he would 
be glad if I would come down and join a little picnic on the 
occasion. I went out of my senses immediately. I think I com- 
mitted every possible absurdity, in the way of preparation for 
this blessed event. I turn hot when T remember the cravat I 
bought. My boots might be placed in any collection of instru- 
ments of torture. At six in the morning I was in Covent Garden 
buying a bouquet for Dora. 

[Bell taps, curtains are drawn, and Dora is seen sitting with Jip in 
her lap and holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The stage is set as 
in preceding scene excepting that a pretty rocker is placed in front and 
lounge is pushed into background. The Reader does not retire this 
time but continues the story, while Dora gives it in pantomime. 

What a spectacle she was that beautiful morning, in a white 

chip bonnet and a dress of celestial blue ! 

" Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!" laid 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 39 

Dora. [As Reader says these words, Dora holds flowers in 
front of her, and looks tip and smiles as if in thanks for the 
floivers. ] To see her lay the flowers against her dimpled chin 
was to lose all presence of mind and power of language in a fee- 
ble ecstasy. [DouA. holds flowers to her face.^ Then Dora held 
my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and wouldn't 
smell them. Then Dora laughed and held them a little closer 
to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of geranium 
with his teeth. Then Dora beat him and pouted and said, " My 
poor beautiful flowers! " as compassionately, I thought, as if Jip 
had laid hold of me. [ The action here is suggested hy the loords. ] 
But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to 
him saying, "Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!" [Dora 
rises and loalks toioard the door, holding out flower s."] And we 
all walked toward the carriage, which was getting ready. 

[^Bell taps, and curtains are drawn.'] 

I shall never have such a ride again. I don't know how long 
we were going, and to this hour I know as little where we went. 
I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang to me who 
loved her, and all the others might applaud as much as they 
liked, but they had nothing to do with it! I was intoxicated 
with joy. I was happier than ever when the party broke up and 
the other people went their several ways. 

When I awoke next morning I was resolute to declare my pas- 
sion to Dora and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now 
the question. I don't know how I did it. I did it in a moment. 
I intercepted Jip. I told her how I loved her. I told her I 
should die without her. I told her that I idolized and wor- 
shiped her. Jip barked madly all the time. If she would like 
me to die for her, she had but to say the word and I was ready. 
Life without her love was not a thing to have on any terms. I 
couldn't bear it, and I wouldn't. The more I raved, the more Jip 
barked. Each of us, in his own way, got more mad every moment. 



40 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Well, well ! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by-and-by, 
qniet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully 
at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. 
Dora and I were engaged. 

10. MY AUNT'S LOSSES. 

Going up to my room one day, what was my amazement to find, 
of all people upon earth, my aunt there, sitting on a quantity of 
luggage. 

" My dear aunt! " cried I. " Why, what an unexpected pleas- 
ure! Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy chair. Why should 
you be so uncomfortable? " 

** Thank you, Trot," replied my aunt. " I prefer to sit upon 
my property. Trot, have you got to be firm and self-reliant? " 

" I hope so, aunt." 

"What do you think? " inquired Miss Betsey. 

" I think so, aunt." 

" Then why, my love, why do you think I prefer to sit upon 
this property of mine to-night? " 

I shook my head unable to guess. 

" Because," said my aunt, " it's all I have. Because I'm ruined, 
my dear! " 

If the house and every one of us had tumbled out into the river 
together, I could hardly have received a greater shock. 

" I am ruined, my dear Trot. All I have in the world is in this 
room, except the cottage ; and that I have left Janet to let. We 
must meet reverses boldly and not suffer them to frighten us, my 
dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live mis- 
fortune down. Trot. " 

How exceedingly miserable I was that night. I had dreams of 
poverty in all sorts of shapes. Now I was ragged, wanting to sell 
Dora matches; now I was hungrily picking up crumbs that fell 
from old Tiffey's daily biscuit; now I was hopelesly endeavoring 
to get a license to marry Dora. When I awoke, or, I should 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41 

rather say, when I left off trying to sleep, I saw the snn shining 
in through the window. Dressing myself as quietly as I could, I 
went for a walk. I was trying to familiarize my mind with the 
worst and to present to myself the arrangements we should have 
to make for the future in their sternest aspect, when a hackney 
chariot coming after me occasioned me to look up. A fair hand 
was stretched forth to me from the window, and the face I had 
never seen without a feeling of serenity and happiness was smi- 
ling on me. 

" Agnes! " I joyfully exclaimed. " Oh, my dear Agues, of all 
people in the world, what a pleasure to see you! " 

"Is it indeed? " she said, in her cordial voice. 

" I want to talk to you so much! It's such a lightening of my 
heart only to look at you. If I had a conjuror's cap, there is no 
one I should have wished for but you ! " 

" What? " returned Agnes. 

'* Well! perhaps Dora, first," I admitted, with a blush. 

" Certainly, Dora first, I hope," said Agnes, laughing. 

" But you next! " said I. " Where are you going?" 

She was going to see my aunt. My aunt had written. We 
found her alone, and began to talk about our losses. 

[Bell taps, Reader tvithdraws, and curtains opeti.^ 

Scene X. — How It Happened. 

Miss Betsey is sitting in an easy chair and Agnes on a low stool be- 
side her. Otherwise the stage may remain the same as in preceding 
scene. 

Miss B. Betsey Trotwood had a certain property. It don't 
matter how much ; enough to live on. More ; for she had saved 
a little, and added to it. Betsey funded her property for some 
time, and then, by the advice of her man of business, laid it out 
on landed security. That did very well, and returned very good 
interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if 
she was a man-of-war. Well! Then Betsey had to look about 



42 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

her for a new investment. She thought she was wiser now than 
her man of business, who was not such a good man of business 
by this time as he used to be — I am alluding to your father, Agnes 
— and she took it into her head to let it out for herself. So she 
took her pigs to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned 
out to be. First, she lost in the mining way; and then, she lost 
in the diving way. The bank was at the other end of the world 
and tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow, it fell to 
pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence ; and Betsey's 
sixpences were all there. Least said, soonest mended. [Miss 
Betsey has been holding Agnes's hand duritig last of her recital, 
and utters her last sentence with a look of triumph.] 

Agnes. Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history? 

Miss B. I hope it's enough, child. If there had been more 
money to lose, it wouldn't have been all, I dare say. Betsey 
would have contrived to throw that after the rest and make an- 
other chapter, I have little doubt. But there was no more money 
and there's no more story. [Taking Agnes's ha7id and laugh- 
ing.l Is that all? Why, yes, that's all except " And she lived 
happy ever afterward." Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet, 
one of these days. 

[Bell taps, curtains aredraton and Reader enter s.'\ 

Reading. 

11. THE COOKERY BOOK. 

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me. I soon car- 
ried desolation into the bosom of our joys by asking Dora, with- 
out the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar ? My 
pretty, little, startled Dora ! Her only association with the word 
was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a 
wooden leg, or something of that kind ; and she stared at me 
with the most delightful wonder. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 43 

" How can yoa ask me anything so foolish!" pouted Dora, 
"Love a beggar!" 

" Dora, my own dearest!" said I. " I am a beggar!" 

" How can you be such a silly thing, as to tell such stories. I'll 
make Jip bite you. " 

"Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!" 

" I declare I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so ridic- 
ulous." 

But I looked so serious that Dora left off shaking her curls 
and first looked scared and anxions and then began to cry. That 
was dreadful. I fell upon my knees before the sofa, imploring 
her not to rend my heart; but for some time poor little Dora did 
nothing but exclaim, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" And "Oh, she 
was so frightened !" And " Go away, please! Don't be dread- 
ful!" 

"/dreadful! To Dora!" 

" Don't talk about being poor and working hard! Oh, don't, 
don't!" 

" My dearest love," said I, " the crnst well earned — " 

" Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts!" 
said Dora. "And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at 
twelve, or he'll die." 

I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly ex- 
claimed to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his 
accustomed regularity. 

" My own! May I mention something ?" 

" Oh, please don't be practical! Because it frightens me so!" 

"If you will sometimes think, just to encourage yourself, that 
yon are engaged to a poor man — " 

" Oh, don't! Pray don't!" cried Dora " It is so very dread- 
ful." 

" My soul, not at all!" said I, cheerfully. " If you will some- 
times think of that, and look about now and then at your papa's 
housekeeping, and endeavor to acquire a little habit of — accounts, 



44 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

for instance — it will be so useful to us afterward," I went on, 
** And if you would promise me to read a little — a little cookery 
book that I would send you, it would be so excellent for both of 
us. For my path in life, my Dora, is stony and rugged now, 
and it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight our way on- 
ward. We must be brave." 

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand and a 
most enthusiastic countenance ; but it was quite unnecessary to 
proceed. I had said enough. I thought I had killed her this 
time. I sprinkled water on her face . I went down on my knees. 
I plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a remorseless brute 
and a ruthless beast. I implored her forgiveness. When we 
were quite composed, Dora went upstairs to put some rose-water 
to her eyes, and returned looking such a lovely little creature that 
I really doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything 
so ordinary. 

12. I TOOK AGNES TO SEE DOEA. 

I took Agnes to see Dora. I had arranged the visit before- 
hand. I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear 
little betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the 
way I pictured Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I 
knew so well; now making up my mind that I should like her to 
look exactly as she looked at such a time, and then doubting 
whether I should not prefer her looking as she looked at such 
another time, and almost worrying myself into a fever about it. 
I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case ; 
but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. Her charm- 
ing little face was flushed, and had never been so pretty. But 
when we went into the room and it turned pale, she was ten 
thousand times prettier yet. 

[Bell taps, curtains open, and Reader continues, while Dora 
and Agnes enter together, Dora a little in advanct.^ 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 46 

Scene XI. — Their Meeting. 

Dora was afraid of Agnes. [Dora looTcs shy.~\ She had told 
me that she knew that Agnes was " too clever." But when she 
saw her looking at once so cheerfnl and so earnest and so 
thoughtful and so good, she gave a faint cry of pleased surprise, 
and just put her affectionate arms around Agnes's neck and laid 
her innocent cheek against Agnes's face. [77ie toords suggest the 
action.] 

I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw 
those two sit down together, side by side [as these words are read 
Dora and Agnes sink upon a settee near front of stage, and ex- 
press hy looks and actions the sentimetits uttered by the Reader] ; 
as when I saw my little darling looking up so naturally to those 
cordial eyes ; as when I saw the tender, beautiful regard which Agnes 
cast upon her. Agnes's quiet interest in everything that inter- 
ested Dora; her manner of making acquaintance with Jip (who 
responded instantly) ; her modest grace and ease, eliciting a crowd 
of blushing little marks of confidence from Dora; seemed to 
make our circle quite complete. 

[Reader retires.] 
Dora. I am so glad that you like me. I didn't think you 
would. I want to be liked. 

Agnes. I am afraid that Trotwood has given me an unprom- 
ising character. 

Dora. Oh, no! It was all praise. He thinks so much of 
your opinion that I was quite afraid of it. 

Agnes. My good opinion can not strengthen his attachment 
to some people whom he knows; it is not worth their having. 

Dora. But please let me have it, if you can. [Agnes im- 
prints a kiss on Dora's cheek, while Dora nestles closer to her 
new-found friend. ] 

[Bell taps, curtains are closed, and Reader advances and con- 
tinues.] 



46 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Reading. 

We made merry about Dora's wanting to be liked, and Dora 
said I was a goose, and she didn't like me at any rate, and the 
short evening flew away on gossamer wings. The time was at 
hand when the coach was to call for us. Dora laughingly put 
Jip through the whole of his performances before the coach 
came. There was a hurried but affectionate parting between 
Agnes and herself ; and Dora was to write to Agnes and Agnes 
was to write to Dora; and they had a second parting at the coach 
door, and a third when Dora would come running out once more 
to remind Agnes at the coach window about writing and to shake 
her curls at me on the box. Never, never had I loved Dora so 
deeply and truly as I loved her that night. 

13. DORA AND I ARE MARRIED. 

The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. Yes! I 
am going to be married to Dora! I have never seen my aunt in 
such state. She is dressed in lavender-colored silk, and has a 
white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet has dressed her and is 
there to look at me. Peggotty is ready to go to church, intend- 
ing to behold the ceremony from the gallery. My aunt sits with 
my hand in hers all the way. 

" God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. 
I think of poor dear Baby this morning." 

" So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt." 

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a 
steam-power loom in full action for any sedative effect it has on 
me. The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream. A dream 
of their coming in with Dora; of a pew- opener arranging us, like 
a drill sergeant, before the altar rails; of the clergyman and the 
clerk appearing; of Agnes taking care of Dora; of my aunt en- 
deavoring to represent herself as a model of sternness, with tears 
rolling down her face ; of little Dora trembling very much and 



DAVID [COPPERFIELD. 47 

making her responses in faint whispers; of our kneeling down 
together, side by side; of Dora's trembling less and less, but 
always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being got 
through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at each other in 
an April state of smiles and tears when it is over ; of my walking 
so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife upon 
my arm, through a mist of half -seen people, pulpits, monu- 
ments, pews, fonts, organs and church windows, in which there 
fluttered faint airs of association with my childish church at 
home, so long ago; of their whispering, as we pass, what a youth- 
ful couple we are and what a pretty little wife she is ; of our 
all being so merry and talkative in the carriage going back ; of 
Agnes laughing gaily and of Dora being so fond of Agnes that 
she will not be separated from her, but still keeps her hand ; of 
the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going 
away to change her dress; of Dora's being ready; of their all 
closing about Dora when at last she begins to say good-bye ; of my 
darling being almost smothered among the flowers, and coming 
out, laughing and crying both together, to my jealous arms; of 
our going arm and arm, and Dora stopping and looking back and 
saying, " If I have ever been cross and ungrateful to anybody, 
don't remember it!" and bursting into tears. 

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I be- 
lieve it at last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom 
I love so well ! 

14. OUR HOUSEKEEPING. 

It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being 
over and the bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sit- 
ting down in my own small house with Dora ; quite thrown out 
of employment, as I may say, in respect of the delicious old oc- 
cupation of making love. It seemed such an extraordinary 
thing to have Dora always there. I doubt whether two young 
birds could have known less about keeping house than I and my 



48 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. Bat she preyed 
npon onr minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience and were 
unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if 
she had any; but she was a remorseless woman and had none. 
She was the cause of our first little quarrel. 

" My dear life," I said one day to Dora, " do you think Mary 
Anne has any idea of time ? " 

"Why, Doady?" inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, 
from her drawing. 

" My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four ! " 

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she 
thought it was too fast. 

"On the contrary, my love," said I, referring to my watch, 
" it's a few minutes too slow. Don't you think, my dear, it 
would be better for you to remonstrate with Mary Anne?" 

"Oh, no, please ! I couldn't, Doady ! " said Dora. 

" Why not, my love ? " I gently asked. 

"Oh, because I am such a little goose," said Dora, " and she 
knows I am ! " 

" But, my love," said I. 

" No, no ! please ! " cried Dora. " Don't be a naughty Blue- 
Beard ! Don't be so serious ! " 

" My precious wife, we must be serious sometimes. You know 
it is not exactly comfortable to have to go without one's dinner. 
Now, is it?" 

" N-n-no," replied Dora, faintly. 

" You must remember that I was obliged to go out yesterday 
when dinner was half over, and that the day before I was made quite 
unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, 
I don't dine at all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited 
for breakfast — and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to 
reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable." 

" Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife?" 
cried Dora. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 49 

*' Now, my dear Dora, yoa must know that I never said that! " 

' ' Yon said I wasn't comfortable ! " 

** I said the housekeeping was not comfortable." 

"It's exactly the same thing !" cried Dora. 

" I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to 
learn. I am only trying to show you, my dear, that yon must — 
you really must — accustom yourself to look after Mary Anne; 
likewise to act a little for yourself and me." 

But I had wounded Dora's soft little heart and she was not to 
be comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, 
that I felt as if I had said I don't know what to hurt her. I was 
obliged to hurry away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night 
such pangs of remorse as made me miserable. I had the con- 
science of an assassin, and was haunted by a vague sense of 
enormous wickedness. 

I had been married, I suppose, about a year and a half. After 
several varieties of experiment, we had given up the housekeep- 
ing as a bad job. The house kept itself, and we kept a page. 
The principal function of this retainer was to quarrel with the 
cook. This unlucky page was a source of continual trouble to 
me. He stole Dora's watch, which, like everything else belong- 
ing to us, had no particular place of its own. All this led me 
into some serious reflections and presented our mistakes in a new 
aspect, as I could not help communicating to Dora one evening, 
in spite of my tenderness for her. 

" My love," said I, "it is very painful to me to think that our 
want of system and management involves not only ourselves but 
other people." 

" You have been silent for a long time, and now you are going 
to be cross ! " said Dora. 

" No, my dear, indeed ! Let me explain to you what I mean." 

" I think I don't want to know," said Dora. 

"But I want you to know, my love. Put Jip down." 

Dora put his nose to mine and said " Boh ! " to drive my seri- 



50 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

oasness away, but, not succeeding, ordered him into his pagoda. 

" The fact is, my dear," I began, " there is contagion in us. 
We infect everyone about us. I begin to be afraid that the fault 
is not entirely on one side, but that these people all turn out ill 
because we don't turn out well ourselves." 

" Oh, what an accusation, to say that you ever saw me take 
gold watches ! Oh !" 

" My dearest," I remonstrated, " don't talk preposterous non- 
sense. Who has made the least allusion to gold watches ? " 

" You did, you know you did. You said I hadn't turned out 
well, and compared me to him." 

" To whom ? " I asked. 

"To the page; oh, you cruel fellow, to compare your affec- 
tionate wife to a transported page ! " 

" Now, Dora, my love ; this is not only very ridiculous of you, 
bat very wrong. In the first place, it's not true. " 

" You always said he was a story-teller," sobbed Dora, "and 
now you say the same of me ! Oh, what shall I do ! What shall 
I do!" 

So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. It 
remained for me to adapt myself to my child-wife; to share with 
her what 1 could and be happy; to bear on my own shoulders 
what I must and be happy still. 

15. MY CHILD-WIFE IS DEAD. 

But as the year wore on, Dora was not strong. I do not know 
how long she had been ill. I was so used to it in feeling that I 
could not count the time. They had left off telling me to " wait 
a few days more." I had begun to fear remotely that the day 
might never shine, when I should see my child wife running in 
the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He was, as it were, sud- 
denly grown very old. It might be that he missed in his mis- 
tress something that enlivened him and made him younger. 

Dora lay smiling on ns, and was beautiful, and uttered no 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. $1 

hasty or complaining word. She said that we were very good to 
her; that her dear, old, careful boy was tiring himself out, she 
knew; that my aunt had no sleep, yet was always wakeful, active 
and kind. 

[Bell taps, reader reth-es, curtains open. 



Scene XII. — Dora and My Aunt. 

Stage set as in preceding scene, Dora lying on tier couch playing 
with Jip, and Miss Betsey sitting in a chair by her side, sewing. 

DoKA. When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt, I 
shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy. 

Miss B. I suspect, my dear, that he had a worse disorder 
than that. Age, Dora. 

Dora. Do you think he is old ? [Voice weah and manner 
languid from illness.] Oh, how strange it seems that Jip 
should be old ! 

Miss B. It is a complaint we are all liable to, little one, as 
we get on in life. I don't feel more free from it than I used to 
be, I assure yon. 

Dora. But Jip ! Even little Jip, Oh! poor fellow! 

Miss B. I dare say he'll last a long time yet, Blossom. He 
must have a piece of flannel in his house this winter, and I 
shouldn't wonder if he came out quite fresh again, with the 
flowers, in the spring. Bless the little dog ! If he had as many 
lives as a cat, and was on the point of losing 'em all, he'd bark 
at me with his last breath, I believe ! 

Dora. Even little Jip ! Oh ! poor fellow ! 

Miss B. His lungs are good enough and his dislikes are not 
at all feeble. He has a good many years before him, no doubt. 
Bat if yon want a dog to race with. Little Blossom, he has lived 
too well for that, and I'll give you one. 

Dora. Thank you, aunt. But don't, please. 

Miss B. No ! 



52 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

Dora. I couldn't have any other clog but Jip. It would be 
so unkind to Jip. Besides, I couldn't be such friends with any 
other dog but Jip, because he wouldn't have known me before I 
was married, and wouldn't have barked at Doady when he first 
came to our house. I couldn't care for any other dog but Jip, I 
am afraid, aunt. 

Miss B. To be sure. You are right. 

Dora. You are not offended, are yon ? 

Miss B. [caressing Dora]. Why, what a sensitive pet it is! 
To think that I could be offended ! 

Dora. No — no — I didn't really think so, but I am a little 
tired, and it made me silly for a moment. I am always a silly 
little thing, you know, but it made me more silly to talk about 
Jip. He has known me in all that has happened to me, haven't 
you, Jip ? And I couldn't bear to slight him because he was a 
little altered, could I, Jip ? You are not so old, Jip, are you, 
that you'll leave your mistress yet ? We may keep each other 
company a little longer. 

[Bell taps, curtains close, and Reader continues.] 
Eeading. 

It is evening, and I sit by the bed. We have been silent, and 
there is a smile on her face. 

"Doady!" 

" My dear Dora!" 

"You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?" Dora 
whispers, with her arm about my neck. 

" How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty 
chair?" 

"My empty chair! And you really miss me, Doady? Even 
poor, giddy, stupid me ?" 

" My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so 
much ?" 

" Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!" 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 53 

It is night, and I am with her stilh Agnes has arrived ; has 
been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt 
and I have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We 
have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented 
and cheerful. We are now alone. 

" I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say 
something that I have often thought of saying lately. I don't 
know what you will think ; perhaps you have often thought the 
same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young. I was such a 
silly little creature! I have begun to think I was not fit to be a 
wife." 

" We have been very happy, my sweet Dora." 

"Is it lonely downstairs, Doady ?" 

"Very! Very!" 

" Don't cry! Is my chair there ?" 

" In its old place." 

"Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! I want to speak 
to Agues. When you go downstairs tell Agnes so, and send her 
up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come — not even 
aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to 
Agnes quite alone. " 

Agnes is downstairs when I go into the parlor, and I give her 
the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip. How 
the time wears I know not; until I am recalled by my child- 
wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out 
of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and 
whines to go upstairs. 

" Not to-night, Jip! Not to-night!" 

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his 
dim eyes to my face. 

" Oh, Jip! It may be never again!" 

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, 
and with a plaintive cry, is dead. 

"0 Agnes! Look, look here!" 



54 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

That face so full of pity and of grief, that rain of tears; that 
awful, mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised toward 
heaven ! 

' ' Agnes ?" 

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes, and, for a time, 
all things are blotted out of my remembrance. 

16. AGNES. 

I went away from England, not knowing, even then, how 
great the shock was that I had to bear. I left all who were dear 
to me and went away, and believed that I had borne it and it was 
past. As a man on a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt 
and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when I was left alone 
with my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound 
with which it had to strive. 

The knowledge came upon me not quickly, but little by little 
and grain by grain. A desolate feeling with which I went 
abroad deepened and widened hourly. At first, it was a heavy 
sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. 
By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of 
all that I had lost — love, friendship, interest; of all that had been 
shattered — my first trust, my first affection, the whole airy castle 
of my life; of all that remained — a ruined blank and waste lying 
wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon. 

From the accamulated sadness into which I fell, I had at 
length no hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to 
place, carrying my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole 
weight now and I drooped beneath it, and I said in my heart 
that it could never be lightened. 

When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I 
should die. Sometimes I thought that I should like to die at home, 
and actually turned back on my road that I might get there soon. 
At other times, I passed on farther away, from city to city, seek- 
ing I knew not what and trying to leave I know not what behind. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 55 

For many months I traveled with this ever-darkening cloud upon 
my mind. 

I was in Switzerland. I came, one evening, before sunset, down 
into the valley where I was to rest. In the course of my descent 
to it, by the winding track along the mountain-side, from which 
I saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of 
beauty and tranquility, some softening influence awakened by its 
peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember pausing once, 
with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite de- 
spairing. I remember almost hoping that some better change was 
possible within me. In this serenity, great Nature spoke to me, 
and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass and 
weep as I had not wept yet since Dora died. 

I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes 
before, and had strolled out of the village to read. I opened it 
and read the writing of Agnes. She was happy and useful, that 
was all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me. She 
gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me, 
in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew, 
she said, how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. 
As the endurance of my childish days had done its part to make 
me what I was, so greater calamities would nerve me on to be yet 
better than I was. She commended me to God, who had taken 
my innocent darling to His rest, and in her sisterly affection 
cherished me always. 

I put the letter in my breast and thought what had I been an 
hour ago ! I wrote to her before I slept. I told her that I had 
been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not, and I 
never had been, what she thought me ; but that she inspired me 
to be that, and I would try. 

I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed 
since the beginning of my sorrow. The three months gone, I re- 
solved to remain away from home for some time longer; to set- 
tle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was growing dear 



56 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

to me in the remembrance of that evening. I can not penetrate 
the mystery of my own heart,to know when I began to think that I 
might have set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I can 
not say at what stage of my grief it first became associated with 
the reflection that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away 
the treasure of her love. Whatever I might have been to her or 
she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long ago, I was not 
now. The time was past. I had let it go by and had deservedly 
lost her. I made no effort to conceal from myself now that I 
loved her, that I was devoted to her ; but I brought the assurance 
home to myself that now it was too late, and that our long-sub- 
sisting relation must be undisturbed. 

Three years had elapsed, when, at the same hour of sunset, 
and in the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel 
that brought me home. Three years ! Long in the aggregate, 
though short as they went by. And home was very dear to me, 
and Agnes, too. But she was not mine — she was never to be 
mine. She might have been, but that was past! 

The opening of the little door in the paneled wall made me 
start and turn. Her beautiful, serene eyes met mine as she came 
toward me. She stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, 
and I caught her in my arms. 

" Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you," 
•*No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood! " 
"Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me to see you once 
again ! " 

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good. I owed 
her so much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find 
no utterance in what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank 
her, tried to tell her what an in^uence she had upon me; but all 
my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb. 

With her own sweet tranquility she calmed my agitation and 
led me back to the time of our parting; spoke to me tenderly of 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 57 

Dora's grave. With the unerring instinct of her noble heart, 
she touched the chords of my memory so softly and harmoniously 
that not one jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowful, 
distant music, and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How 
could 1, when, blended with it all, was her dear self, the better 
angel of my life ? 

" You remember when you came down to me in our little 
room, pointing upward, Agnes?" 

"Oh, Trotwood ! " she returned, her eyes filled with tears. 
"So loving, so confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget! " 

"As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you 
have ever been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever 
leading me to something better; ever directing me to higher 
things. " 

She only shook her head ; through her tears I saw the same 
quiet smile. 

" You are thoughtful to-day, Trotwood ! " 

" Agnes, shall I tell you what about? My dear Agnes, do 
you doubt my being true to you ? " 

" No! " she answered, with a look of astonishment. 

" Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you ?" 

" No! " she answered, as before. 

" You have a secret," said I. " Let me share it, Agnes." 

She cast down her eyes and trembled. With an appealing, 
almost a reproachful, glance, she rose from the window, and 
hurrying across the room as if without knowing where, put her 
hands before her face, and burst into such tears as smote me to 
the heart. And yet they awakened something in me, bringing 
promise to my heart. 

"Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done ?" 

" Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not myself. I will speak 
to you by-and-by — another time. I will write to you. Don't 
speak to me now. Don't! don't!" 

" Agnes, I can not bear to see you so and think that I have 



58 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

been the canse. If you are unhappy, let me share your unhappi- 
ness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to give 
it to you. If you have, indeed, a burden on your heart, let me 
try to lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not 
for you ?" 

" Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!" 

'* For heaven's sake, Agnes, let us not mistake each other after 
all these years and all that has come and gone with them! I 
must speak plainly. If you have any lingering thought that I 
could envy the happiness you will confer; that I could not resign 
you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; that I could 
not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of your joy, 
dismiss it, for I don't deserve it!" 

She was quiet now. In a little time she turned her pale face 
toward me and said, in a low voice, broken here and there, but 
very clear: 

" I owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood, to tell 
you, you are mistaken. I can do no more. If I have sometimes, 
in the course of years, wanted help and counsel, they have come 
to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy, the feeling has passed 
away. If I have ever had a burden on my heart, it has been 
lightened for me. If I have any secret, it is no new one and is 
not what you suppose. I can not reveal it or divide it. It has 
long been mine, and must remain mine. " 

"Agnes! Stay! A moment! Dearest Agnes, whom I so 
respect and honor, whom I so devotedly love ! When I came 
here to-day, I thought that nothing could have wrested this con- 
fession from me. I thought I could have kept it in my bosom 
all our lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I have, indeed, 
any new-born hope it is that I may call you something more than 
sister, widely different from sister." 

Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately 
shed, and I saw my hope brightening in them. 

"When I loved Dora — fondly, Agnes, as you know — even 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 59 

then my love would have been incomplete without your sympa- 
thy. I had it and it was perfected. And when I lost her, 
Agnes, what should I have been without you still ? I went away, 
dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving yon. I returned 
home, loving yon !" 

We walked that winter evening in the fields together, and the 
blessed calm within us seemed to be partaken of by the frosty 
air. The early stars began to shine while we were lingering on, 
and looking up to them we thanked our God for having guided 
us to this tranquility. 

Curtain, 




DELSARTE SYSTEM OF EXPRESSION. 

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Fifteen illustrations of three young ladies; 

original cover and border designs and 

landscapes. Printed in three colors. 
PKICE. 50 CENTS. 

Either of the above sent postpaid on receipt of price. 
Edgar S. Werner, Publisher, J 08 E. J 6th St., New York. 



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REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION JUST ISSUED. 



Frimer of Elocution and Action. 

By F. TOWNSEND SOUTHWICK. 



Are you dissatisfied wltb the Of conrse you are. Then throw 

stilted and mechanical old meth- them aside, and ifct the newest 

ods and the cumbersome old and best manual of elocutionary 

books ? and dramatic technique, — 

The Only "New Elocution" Text-Boot 

Based on Common-Sense and Thoroughly in Accord with Modem Ideas. 
Plain, Concise and Comprehensive Lessons Arranged for Progressive 

Study, Showing not only what to do, but also how to do it. 
The "Selections for Practice" — chosen from Standard Literature — are for 

the Elocutionary and Dramatic Student what Etudes and Vocalises 

are for the Music Student. 

Specially Suited for Schools of all Grades. 

The Book is Endorsed by Educational Journals and Eminent Teachers, and 
is now in use in the most Progressive Schools of the United States 
and of Canada. 



Original illustrations. The cheapest (250 pages) Elocutionary Text- 
book published. Teachers' net price, 75 cents; 60 cents for class use, 
postpaid. Extremely liberal exchange price will be made for the books 
you are now using. 



Eogar S. Werner, Publisher, 108 E. 16th St, New York 



A rtistic f locutionarp p ublications 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 



S?MMPMn 



POEM BY 
Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow - - 



Musical Background by 

Harvey "Worthington 
Loomis 



A 

■Romance of 
m Ranges 

POEM BY 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Arranged for Entertainment to be given 
by seven young ladies 

By Ella H. Denig 

Fourteen superb illustrations 
from life. Full directions given 

PRICE, 25 CENTS 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦^^ 

"pableaux Mouvants | SCARF 

and Poses t ^ . , ,.-^ * ^^,^-,>-.^ 

FANTASTICS 



An exquisite musical recitation with 

beautiful title-page. Good Literature 

Good Music 

PRICE, $1.00 



Plastiques 

No. 1.— BY Clara Power Edgerly. 
Contains : " The Toilet of the Bride," 
"The Dance of the Muses," "The 
Niobe Group," "The Death of 
Virginia." 

No 2.— By MargaretVirginia Jenkins 
Contains : "A Charm from the Skies," 
"The Birds Singing Gaily," "Heaven- 
ly Home," "In Sight of Home," "A 
Study in Attitude." 

No. a— By Florence Fowle Adams. 
Contains: "The Muses," "Dressing 
the Bride," "Fanny Davenport as 
Cleopatra," "Faith, Hope, and 
Charity." 



EACH NUMBER, 25 CENTS 



By 

ELIZABETH A. 
MIDDLETON 

A twenty-minutes' Esthetic Drill for 
Nine Young Ladies 

Twelve Full-Page Illustrations 
From Life 

PRICE, 25 CENTS 



♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

€<isar S. Werner. Publisber, '^^ east letb stmt 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




Hollinger Corp. 
pH 8.5 



